


The Long Way Home

by gamb



Category: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Kaldheim, Resurrection, Suicidal Themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29394066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamb/pseuds/gamb
Summary: High in Starnheim, a valkyrie searches for a way to forestall the coming apocalypse but discovers something else: a strange soul, floating free.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by two pieces of fanart by Bryan F. Rosado, which can be found [here](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/3dZBJJ) and [here](https://www.artstation.com/artwork/D5zrY9).

On the docks overlooking Lake Valkmir stood a valkyrie. The surface of the Valkmir was never still: it bustled always with longships carrying the souls of Kaldheim’s worthy to an eternal feast within the Hall of the Valkyries, for the people of Kaldheim were noble and strong and greatly desired to be welcomed into the valkyrie’s Hall. But Tülka--for this was the valkyrie’s name--did not see the ships, though her eyes followed them as they drifted over the still black water. She looked through the longships, concentrating on something beyond them, searching for meaning in the patterns the ships traced through the lake. Omens took many forms, and while she was no seeress and did not have the knowing of prophecy, it had been here, on the docks of the Valkmir, where Tülka had looked out across the lake and seen the end of the world written in the ripples carved by the boats.

Tülka had known the sun would set on Starnheim since she was very young, and yet the knowledge that its downfall might be imminent caused her to feel something akin to fear. Fear was a mortal affliction, one she could not experience, yet how else to characterize the restless way she could do naught but scour the surface of the lake for some spot of hope or brightness?

Stories were spreading, even among the mortals. Something had come, something evil, something too grim even to bear the name ‘monster’. Monsters were known, usual, woven into the fabric of the worlds. If the stories were to be believed--and how could Tülka do otherwise, when she had seen the dark edges of doom with her own eyes?--then something new had come to the Ten Realms, something in form unknown even to the oldest of the valkyries, who had been born as the first sun rose over the World Tree and had seen all the ages of the worlds. Even the god Alrund had no knowledge of it, and it was said he was searching desperately for any answers.

None who had ever seen the thing had lived. The valkyries Gera and Harthra had gone to the site of a battle with the thing and had been unable to identify any part of the gore left behind. So ruined were the bodies that one could not even tell animal from person, and the souls the pair encountered could not agree what sort of creature had slain them, only that it had been the most horrible thing any of them had seen. Mikin and Krell had found a trace of the silvery ichor the creature left in its wake, but the two could not follow it: Mikin had knelt to examine the trail and her wingtip had brushed against the silvery liquid. Within moments, her wing had begun to burn as if bitten by an adder. No poison ought to affect a valkyrie, yet within a day the limb was necrotic and Mikin mad with pain, and there was nothing to do but to amputate the wing. And the strangest thing of all was that, when others went to follow the trail Mikin and Krell could not, the trail had vanished.

All of it boded ill.

Behind Tülka, the grand Hall of the Valkyries floated on the lake, and from it came the boisterous noise of uncountable revelers, the honored dead, who sang and drank and ate at the endless feast. The voices were indistinct by the time they reached the docks, but one did not have to understand their words to hear the joy they carried. Tülka was not among the oldest of the valkyries, having come into being some years after the first dawn, but still she had shepherded thousands to the feast. She remembered the names and tales of each and recited them to herself endlessly, but of late the words had come haltingly to her tongue and she found no comfort in their telling, for now they served only as a reminder of the war to come, and the part each of her warriors would play in it. The coming war would be the final one, and her warriors would fight valiantly in it, but they would be defeated all the same. So it had been prophesied, and so she too had seen, and the knowing of it haunted her heart.

A new sound came from the Hall behind Tülka, a piercing, ululating call that cut through the chattering feasters. Tülka howled back an answering cry and picked up her sword from where she had lain it, but before she could unfurl her wings another valkyrie came plunging from the sky to land heavily beside her. The docks rocked.

“I knew you would be here. Have you nothing better to do than stare at the sky? Heard you not the horns?”

“Hail, Athra,” said Tülka, greeting her counterpart. “No, I heard no horns.”

Valkyries are not born in the way typical of the mortal races, and so it was not correct to call Tülka and Athra ‘twins’, yet they were connected in a way not dissimilar. Valkyries come always in pairs, and the bond between each is as fierce as that between the closest siblings. Pale Tülka was the kindlier of the two, for honor and redemption were her concerns; Athra, with wings of deepest black, was tasked with punishing the cowardly and the wicked, and so was hard and impatient. Neither valkyrie would say they liked the other, and frequently they argued, yet they loved each other deeply even so.

“A great host of Skelle raiders descended upon the Beskir people,” said Athra. “A grand battle ensued, with many acts of heroism, and we have been called to sort through the dead and send the worthy on their way to Starnheim. Come, cease your sulking; it is time to attend the present, not fret about what has yet to come. You have wasted much time here of late.”

Athra knew what darkness weighed on Tülka’s mind, and it frustrated her, as ever since the day that Tülka had seen evil tidings in the water Tülka had been quiet and had spent much time alone. Athra did not understand why: she was not the kind to worry about what was to come, and rarely ever did she think of the future.

Without another word, Athra spread her pitch-black wings and sprang aloft. Tülka made to join her partner, but something on the lake caught her eye and made her wings falter. A speck of brightness bobbled above the dark, glassy surface of the Valkmir, flitting to and fro between the boats with the aimless nature of a gnat. Curious, Tülka went to the end of the docks and laid herself down flat so she could reach, and swiftly grabbed the mote between thumb and forefinger, just as she would catch a floating piece of feather down.

She stood and brought her fingers close to examine the thing. It was small as a grain of sand, but it flickered like starlight in her grasp. When the sunlight hit it, out came a low hum, an alien melody. Fascinated, Tülka listened, rolling the mote between her fingers to see how the colors changed.

From above, Athra called, more angrily this time. Tülka wrapped the wisp in a protective spell and placed it within the stone of her necklace for safekeeping, then made haste to join her partner. Greatly did she desire to show Athra what she had found, but she judged she would be better served to wait until after they had completed their task, as Athra was already irritable and disliked being distracted from her work. So the two valkyries flew in silence over the lake Valkmir, through the gates of Starnheim, and down through the harsh winds of the Cosmos. Few could fly here; even the gods at times struggled to navigate the gale. But the valkyries had made this voyage many times, and they dove through eagerly. With their wings, they cut open a passageway to Bretagard, the realm of humankind.

The battlefield took but little time to find. It had indeed been a grand battle, and valkyries can always sense where blood has been spilled. Dutifully, Tülka and Athra walked among the dead, sending those who had distinguished themselves onto the path to Starnheim, but Tülka moved a bit faster than she otherwise might have. When finally the field of battle was cleared, she went to Athra and pulled the wisp from the stone--but Athra’s reaction was not as she had hoped.

“So? It is a soul never properly laid to rest, carried here by cosmic currents. Let it go, that it may find what peace it might,” ordered Athra.

“But see here, how it glows!” protested Tülka. “This is not the soul of a hermit taken by wolves, or a sailor drug under the waves.”

“It must be something of that kind, for if it had died a courageous death, it would not be drifting free. Valkyries would have been alerted and shepherded it to Starnheim,” said Athra, waving her arm to encompass the departing heroes the two had just sent on their way. “It is a strange-looking thing, I grant you, but though I am no mind-reader, I can see the shape of your thoughts, and I must tell you that this soul-mote is nothing more than that: a wayward soul. It has nothing to do with the dark tidings that have so preoccupied your mind of late. Let it go, or if you prefer I can take it to Istfell for you, where it must belong.”

“It made its way to Starnheim. That must mean something.”

“It means it is lucky and happened to catch a favorable wind. Nothing more.”

But though her head knew that Athra was right, Tülka could not make her heart obey. She pressed the little light back into the stone of her necklace and followed the honored dead back to Starnheim, reciting silently to herself a saga of old. It was not a saga told to her by one of the dead she had shepherded, but one far older, first told to her by another valkyrie, and it concerned life and death and the pathways between the two. Deep in her mind, a plan began to blossom.

The light gnawed at Tülka. For weeks, even as she did her duties, its existence in the stone at her throat was foremost in her mind. It was a welcome reprieve from the constant thoughts of doom that had plagued her, and while Tülka knew she ought to do as Athra counseled, as Athra was the wiser of the two, she bristled at the thought of setting the soul free and letting so precious a thing be lost to the vagaries of the cosmic winds. For precious the soul clearly was: even Athra admitted as much, after much prodding. It gleamed like a star in a moonless sky, and its strange, quiet song was like nothing Tülka had ever heard before. For hours she would hold it in the sunlight so that it would sing.

At last, she could bear it no longer.

“I will go to the goddess Esika,” she told Athra. “And ask for a drop of tyrite, that I might create a body to house this soul and grant it new life.”

“She will not grant you any,” said Athra. “Esika holds the World Tree sacred, and it is only with great reluctance that she will part with any piece of it. It has been centuries since last she granted a bit of the Tree’s sap to anyone, for any reason. Do not waste your time.”

“I must try,” said Tülka, and this was true. She would not be able to think of anything else until an attempt was made, nor could she believe that Esika would deny her. Surely Esika would see in the soul what Tülka saw and grant her a drop of sap. “Besides, there are other sources of tyrite. I ask Esika only because it is polite to do so, and because it is better for all if valkyrie and god remain on friendly terms.”

Esika’s apothecary sat at the base of the World Tree, for the goddess was loath to go far from the Tree. The surrounding tundra was rocky and barren, the only greenery creeping rock willows whose roots clutched tightly to the stone, as well as tough mosses and lichens that could grow in the permafrost. Tülka did not fly here but kept to the pathway, which glowed green and flowed around her feet like water.

The apothecary was a simple structure, made of timbers so old that they were more akin to stone than to wood. They formed the walls and supported a roof of moldering thatch. Smoke tinged with a rainbow glimmer curled out from the smokehole in lazy arcs. When Tülka pushed open the door, strings of bones hanging in the doorway jangled.

Inside was a single, narrow room. A multitude of thick, dripping candles provided light to see by. At the center stood Esika, tending a small cauldron of copper. She did not look up as Tülka entered, but continued with her task, measuring and mixing different substances in the little cauldron, all the while murmuring the syllables of a spell. Tülka waited at a respectful distance.

Esika had the form of a youthful human, but always Tülka had thought of her as a crystal, for any light which touched her split into many colors, like sunlight through cut glass. The candlelight broke into a rainbow aura around her. Her golden hair was plaited tightly and woven with white flowers, and she wore on her back a cloak of fur from a white wolf, a gift from her brother Toralf. On her person were many such trinkets; Esika was much beloved by the other gods, for it was Esika who created the elixir that granted them their immortality. 

Inside, Esika’s apothecary was a smorgasbord of ingredients both magical and mundane. Over a hundred varieties of herbs hung from the ceiling, in bunches and braids; interspersed with these were strings of rib bones and rabbit feet and squirrel tails and snake skins. Different sorts of antlers and horns were mounted on nails stuck in the timber walls. On a shelf sat a dozen baskets, each filled with a different sort of egg--blackbird, finch, siskin, bunting, raven, ptarmigan, fish-hawk, and more. Underneath these were wooden casks, sealed with wax and marked with runes, and beside the casks were bundles of sticks and split logs, carefully sorted by which type of tree each had come from. It was an amazing collection, and so taken was Tülka that she did not notice when Esika finished her spell and removed the cauldron from the fire.

“Long has it been since a valkyrie came to visit me,” said Esika. “I cannot imagine one has come simply to gape.”

“No, my lady, I have not. I come today to ask for a favor,” said Tülka. She knelt and bowed her head. “I must ask for a drop of sap from the World Tree.”

Esika lifted her brows. It had indeed been a very long time since last anyone had asked this of her. “A drop of sap from the World Tree? Only one thing can be done with a mere drop, and so I must assume you intend to cast a resurrection spell. Yet such an undertaking is not to be done lightly, and it has been long since last anyone attempted such a thing. I find myself curious as to why you desire to do so now. Rarely do valkyries see fit to grant life to the dead.”

Tülka pulled the soul-mote from the stone of her necklace and passed it to Esika. “I found this drifting above the black waters of the lake Valkmir.”

Esika took the soul between her thumb and middle finger and held it up so that it caught the anemic midwinter sunlight coming through the smokehole. When the sunlight touched it, it sparkled, in a manner not unlike Esika herself, and the strange humming melody, soft as it was, filled the otherwise silent room. Esika stood motionless for some time as she listened.

“This has traveled far,” said Esika at last. “I cannot begin to guess from which realm it originated, nor can I say from what sort of creature. What an odd thing!”

“I thought perhaps it was the lost soul of a great hero or some magnificent creature of the Cosmos,” said Tülka. 

“You would know better than I, yet I find it strange I cannot discern more. I have never seen a thing exactly like this before, and that alone demands exploration. There are many things yet unknown even to the gods, and such things often prove useful once understood. But they also require caution. Who knows? This could be a trick of Valki’s, or perhaps it is related to the strange tales of unknown monsters in the wilds. It may be dangerous.”

“It is not an evil thing,” protested Tülka.

“On this, I defer to your judgment. Discriminating the worthy from the worthless is your purview, not mine, and I admit I have no special knowledge of the soul and its manifestations, though I do know many things. Still, it could have been made to look appealing to trick us into lowering our guard, and that is a possibility we cannot ignore.”

Tülka held her tongue. Despite the goddess’s protestations towards caution, Esika was known to love researching new things, and Tülka hoped that her curiosity would win out. But after long consideration, Esika handed the soul-mote back to Tülka with a frown.

“I must consider this further, and consult with Alrund. I will send word, should I decide to grant you this boon.”

Despite Esika’s reluctance, it seemed impossible to Tülka that the goddess would refuse her, so she set about gathering the other things that she would need. To Aldergard she flew, and she selected from its dense forests an ancient, upright yew. This she felled and stripped of its branches and bark, which she set aside. She spent a day walking through the woods picking red ripe mistletoe berries, and another day and night hunting a young bear. She took its heart and encased it in ice, and left the skin to cure.

To the sea she went, and here she filled a heavy iron cauldron with seawater. She scoured the rocky shore until she found a bed of oysters, and from their maws she prised a pair of pearls. All these she carried back to the felled yew, and with the discarded branches she started a fire and placed the cauldron of seawater upon it. The mistletoe berries she mashed under the blunt end of her ax, then added to the gently bubbling seawater.

She returned to Starnheim and walked again upon the docks, and from the black lake Valkmir she took a drop of water. The Valkmir held the blood of the first valkyrie, slain in the battle that had birthed the world, and the water therein had many magical properties.

It was there on the docks that Athra found her.

“What did Esika say?” asked Athra.

“She said she had to consult with Alrund before she could decide,” said Tülka.

“There, it is as I told you. These new gods guard the World Tree jealously and believe it belongs only to them. She is searching for a reason to deny you.”

“Perhaps that is so,” said Tülka. “But Alrund is ever curious, and I know he will want to know more about the soul. I do not think they will say no.”

“Clearly not, for I see you are already gathering the rest of the components for the spell,” said Athra. “For three days and three nights you have been absent. I have resented the solitude. Why did you not fetch me, so that we could gather everything together?”

“I did not think you would want to, for I know how you feel about the soul.”

“That may be so. But we are partners, and it does not do for one of us to make decisions and leave out the other. Together, we decide whether the dead are worthy of Starnheim, or are to be cast into Istfell, and while it is outside our usual duties, I think it only right that together we decide whether a soul is to be reborn--or rather, given that I can see you will not be dissuaded, I feel it is only right that I still be included.”

And Tülka smiled, for though Athra was chastising her, it was done of love, and Tülka too had been lonely.

It took a week to trim the yew down to size and to carve the proper runes into it, and as she chiseled, an odd rebellious thought entered Tülka’s mind as to what she would do if Esika refused to grant her the tyrite. Though still Tülka believed that Esika would not deny her, she found that she was utterly unwilling to let her work go to waste, or to let the question of the soul’s presence go unanswered. For the sake of all, the valkyries and the gods were friendly--but the valkyries were older than the gods, and they would judge the gods upon their end, and Tülka was no more bound by the gods’ whims than a river by a net. Tülka would not steal from Esika, as that would invite unwanted conflict between the gods and the valkyries, but there were other sources of tyrite. Ever since the new gods had come and thrown down the Einir, the bulk of the World Tree’s sap had gone to the gods in their Elixir, but some still had been used for other purposes, and the Einir themselves had not hoarded the sap so zealously and had given away much of it long ago. Dozens of tyrite artifacts existed, not least of them the sword of the god Halvar.

And so Tülka found her mind working over ridiculous plans: sneaking into the Gods’ Hall and chipping off a sliver of Halvar’s sword, or pulling the tyrite gems from Kolvori’s crest, or questing for ancient amulets long lost to legend. It was said even that Koma the serpent, greatest of the Cosmos monsters, had a great treasure of tyrite in his stomach, and that Sarulf, the realm-eater, had embedded in his hide a tyrite arrowhead. Both were beyond her skill; it would take hundreds of valkyries to bring down either beast, if not more. And yet Tülka imagined herself slitting the miles-long body of the world serpent open and taking from it what she desired. The notion was ridiculous, but so intense were Tülka’s feelings that she began to wonder if the soul-mote was indeed some trick of Valki’s that had ensorcelled her. Discovering the secrets of the soul-mote had become an irresistible impulse, as much a part of her being as her body or her duties as a valkyrie. She would attempt to do the impossible before she would abandon her quest.

But it would not come to that: on the fifth day of carving, a squirrel ran in dizzying circles down the nearby tree. Tülka was surprised to see that it was not just any messenger, but Toski himself, his long tail spiraling down behind him. Toski halted by her feet and produced from a tiny rucksack an acorn; Tülka knelt to take it. Toski’s long tail gathered in a coil, and the many runes that covered it began to glow softly, and a voice emerged.

“I will grant you your boon, on the condition that you bring whatever results from your spell to the Hall of the Gods so that Alrund and I may examine it,” came a shadowy voice, an echo of Esika. “Perhaps it will be able to reveal something of the strange happenings afoot, but regardless we must know what it is you have brought into our realm. I do not, I hope, have to remind you how precious a thing it is that I give you.”

“No. Thank you,” said Tülka reverentially, though, of course, Esika could not hear her. She gripped the little acorn and removed its cap to find the inside hollowed out, and a small drop of shimmering sap contained within, smaller than a pea. She held her breath to behold it, and quickly replaced the cap and placed the acorn in her most secure pocket. “Tell Esika I will do as she asks and bring the result to her and Alrund, and that I thank her greatly for her generosity.”

Toski’s nose twitched in affirmation, and away he scampered.

“Well, I am surprised. I did not expect Esika to part with any tyrite, given how dear she holds it,” said Athra when the squirrel had left.

“They saw what I saw,” whispered Tülka, and she set about carving the rest of the runes with renewed eagerness.

When finally the last rune was completed, Tülka took the cauldron of seawater and mistletoe from the fire, and removed the precious acorn from its secure place, and took out also the vial containing the drop from the lake Valkmir. She pulled the cap off the acorn and unstoppered the vial and dripped the drop of water from the Valkmir into the little acorn with its tyrite. The two drops did not want to mix, but she pressed them together with magic until they united into a single droplet, a heavy gray that caught and reflected the moonlight in dizzying patterns. This she tipped out into the cooling mixture of seawater and mistletoe.

While she did this, Athra worked with the carved yew idol. She thawed the bear’s heart and placed it in an alcove they had carved in the idol’s center, then placed the two pearls in their proper places in the idol’s facsimile head. Tülka came over and pulled the soul-mote out of its stone, and this she pushed into the core of the wooden idol. Then, at last, it was time to cast the spell.

Tülka hefted the heavy cauldron in her hands and began to chant a spell she had memorized centuries ago, but never imagined she would cast. She poured the lukewarm, ruddy mixture over the idol; the spell forced the liquid into the rune-channels. At first it shimmered an oily red, but once every inch of the runes was filled the liquid shone suddenly a brilliant white. Cracks appeared in the wood. The spell was working. Tülka forced her voice steady and even as she continued to direct its magic.

To the side, Athra stood, holding her heavy scythe close and watching warily.

The wood split and formed into a roughly humanoid shape. The square edges of the wooden head smoothed, and features pushed forward from its flat face. Splinters elongated and darkened into hair, while deep cracks became arms and legs, which divided further into toes and fingers. With a sound like a falling tree, the figure took its first deep, rasping breath. Pupils and irises appeared on the pearls before being obscured by the rapid blinks of newly grown eyelids. The white rune-channels began to close as they completed their work.

Tülka chanted the final stanzas of the spell, and the form refined itself further and further until all traces of the wooden idol were gone. What remained was a man, a human man, and Tülka found herself at first disappointed, for she had expected that such a strange soul would have come from something less commonplace than a human. Humans were capable of great deeds, of course, but she had seen untold thousands of human souls, and none had been anything like the one that had so enraptured her. It was hard to remember the shining brilliance of his soul when looking at the rough features that enshrouded it.

He was a young man, broad in shoulder and well-muscled, but not particularly tall. His hair was long and dark, and he was mostly clean-shaven, aside from his longer side-whiskers. It was an odd cut, out of fashion among humans, or at least Tülka could not recall ever seeing a man with such a style. He had a heavy brow and a strong chin, and his nose was flat and broad. There was something about his face that Tülka found strange, but she could not figure out what it was.

The man stared at his fingers as the last of the rune-channels finished their work. His eyes were a piercing grey that put Tülka in mind of Athra, but--at least when furrowed in confusion--his gaze was not as sharp as hers. Chest heaving, he flexed his fingers and looked up to Tülka. The last of the light on his skin dimmed and vanished.

And his legs wobbled and folded under him like a newborn foal’s, and he fell. Tülka caught him and pulled him upright and guided him to sit upon a log near the fire. He moved with all the grace of a fawn, and once sitting he remained motionless, eyes fixed upon the sky. Tülka wrapped the young bear’s skin around his naked form.

“It is cold,” he said. He seemed fascinated by the fading clouds his breath left in the air.

“It is midwinter,” said Tülka. She placed a few more branches on the fire, then sat across from the man. The sagas had not mentioned that weakness and disorientation might be effects of a resurrection spell, although she was unsurprised to learn that they were. But it did mean that she had no history to guide her as to how to approach this man, or for how long the effect might last, nor how she might alleviate it.

“Have you a name?” she asked, deciding to resort to the most basic pleasantries.

The man did not answer for several seconds. “Yes,” he said at last, but he spoke no further.

At the edge of the glade, Athra loosened her grip on her scythe, but still she watched intently.

“My name is Tülka. I am a valkyrie of Starnheim. There I found your soul, and I have restored to you your life.” When the man did not respond to this either, she continued, “I must call you something.”

“Call me whatever you wish. It matters not to me,” he said. “Is there water?”

“Of course. I will return shortly,” said Tülka. The river Svalbar flowed not far away, and she made to go to it, but Athra caught her before she left.

“Has something gone wrong with the spell?” asked Athra. “He is weak, a shadow.”

“I was there when first you flew, Athra, and you were not so graceful then either. Give him time,” said Tülka.

“It is not his body that concerns me. Look upon him; do you see how thin and pale his soul is?”

“Do you not remember how it was so recently a shining jewel? Do not be so hasty to judge. Let the waters settle, that we may see clearly,” cautioned Tülka, though worry colored her words, and she wondered whether Esika had been correct, and the soul was a trick, made beautiful to ensnare her.

But she pulled away from Athra and went to the river and filled up a horn with water, and when she returned she helped the man drink, for his hands shook as if palsied when he tried to grip the horn. Athra watched silently all the while.

“What is that?” the man asked, nodding towards the green-gold traceries of the aurora rippling in the sky.

“The light? That is the aurora, the holy light of creation,” said Tülka.

“Do you not remember it?” asked Athra.

“I do not think I have seen anything like it before,” he said.

“That does not seem possible,” said Athra. “It shines over each of the Ten Realms, and over the World Tree itself. Did you live deep in a cave? How else could you have never seen the sky?”

“It does not matter, for now,” said Tülka, though she too wondered what the answer might be. “Please, tell me what I should call you.”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “I have a name, but it feels as if it belongs to a stranger and does not fit me any longer. I was Gideon if you must call me that, but I do not think that name is mine any longer. Choose a new name for me, if you’d like.”

“As you wish,” said Tülka, and for a moment she sat in silent thought. Then she continued, “There are legends of a man named Mithyr, who learned the language of the stars but would not share his knowledge, and so well did he keep his secrets that even Valki could not trick them from him, and thus I will call you Mithyr, for your secrets, until such time as you tell me otherwise.”

The man nodded his acceptance.

“I have made a promise to the goddess Esika that I shall take you to see her, once you are able to make the journey. It is some way from here to the Gods’ Hall,” said Tülka.

“I do not think I could walk from here to that tree,” said Mithyr, indicating an evergreen some thirty paces away.

“We can wait until your strength returns,” said Tülka, though doubts crowded her mind. She had executed the spell perfectly, at least as recounted in the sagas. It was not a mistake that caused Mithyr’s weakness.

Athra sat beside Tülka. “You are young,” she observed of Mithyr. “What was the manner of your death?”

“Why does that matter?” asked Mithyr.

“Do you not recognize what I am, either? You do not know the aurora, you do not know valkyries. Either you are a liar to rival Valki himself, or you are a strange creature indeed,” snapped Athra venomously. “But since it seems you do not know: I am a valkyrie, and death and judgment are our domains. Tülka believes there is something worthy about you and so granted you fresh life, but I do not see what she sees, and if you are bound for Istfell to wander amongst the crooked and the cowardly, then let us be done with you now.”

“He had done nothing yet to earn your reprobation,” argued Tülka, surprised and alarmed at her partner’s sudden fierceness.

“Perhaps not in this life, but he has lived before, and a soul does not change its character,” said Athra.

“That’s not true,” said Mithyr. His voice was quiet, but still it cut through the growing argument between the two valkyries.

Athra smiled. Even in delight, there was something cruel about her face. “Perhaps you are right, and I  _ have  _ judged too quickly, for there are not many men who would challenge me.”

“He is correct; a soul can change its nature,” said Tülka.

“Bah!” said Athra, but the fight had gone from her, and she settled more comfortably on her seat. “It is said such a thing is possible, but I have not seen it done. Nor have you, Tülka. A legend, nothing more. But let that not concern us at present: tell me, Mithyr, how you came to be a soul drifting across the Cosmos.”

The man scowled. “If I do not answer, will you endeavor to force the tale from me?”

“No”, said she, but her dark eyes glittered. “But I find it strange you will not speak. Was it so awful you cannot bring yourself to remember it?”

“You say that as if such a thing would surprise you, even though many people cannot speak of things that are far less chilling than their own deaths. To end your questions: my memories of the event are hazy. I had a friend in mortal peril. Much depended on her survival, and in saving her I was myself slain. Does that suffice?”

“I suppose, though it is a paltry tale, and I hope you tell it in full one day,” said Athra. And Tülka allowed herself to smile, for with those words she knew Athra had judged the man worthy enough of a chance.

“I have a question for you, one much simpler than the one you posed to me: where am I?” asked Mithyr.

“In the forests of Aldergard, south of the Tusk Mountains and not far eastward of the Svalbar River,” answered Tülka.

Mithyr shook his head. “I do not know where that is.”

“Whenceforth did you come?”

“Far away,” said Mithyr, and while neither valkyrie had sensed dishonesty when he spoke before, now they heard evasiveness in his answer. But he thought for a moment, and then laughed hoarsely, and when he spoke next they heard the truth ring out. “What does it matter? I was born--for the first time--on the plane of Theros, at the Kolophon in the mountains of Akros.”

The valkyries had traveled to every one of the Ten Realms of Kaldheim, but neither of them knew these places, and they said as much.

Mithyr laughed once more. “It is a different plane entirely, one you cannot reach unless you bear a planeswalker’s spark. That is all I know. Most do not know of planeswalkers, and most planeswalkers prefer to keep their nature hidden, but I see no point in hiding it: I am one, or at least was. I do not know if I still possess the ability, and I am too tired now to try.”

He yawned as if to punctuate his statement, and Athra and Tülka let the matter lie, though it piqued even Athra’s staid curiosity. Mithyr huddled under the bear skin, and soon he was asleep, though he slept as if he were ill, flitting constantly between sleep and wakefulness.

“He has spoken the truth, and yet what little he has told us is unbelievable,” whispered Athra.

“Tomorrow, with luck, we will go to the Gods’ Hall, and there we can consult the gods, and see if they have any answers,” said Tülka. “Alrund knows many things even the oldest among us do not.”

And in the quiet darkness of a midwinter’s night, Tülka thought of the black waters of the lake Valkmir, and the doom she had there foreseen. Athra thought of her partner’s obsession with the soul-mote, and how it had worried her, and the strange man that had resulted, and she wondered if she ought to have fought harder to send the soul to Istfell. And Mithyr, in his moments of wakefulness, thought that it was no wonder newborns squalled, if this is how it felt to become alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange visitor comes to the elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry--this was intended to be out two weeks ago, as I wrote all three first chapters together and they're essentially done, but the cold I've been nursing since like late December (which multiple tests have confirmed is definitely not covid, although I still wonder) decided to turn into bronchitis. I would suggest not getting bronchitis. Coughing so hard you get dizzy and black out a little bit isn't fun.

Skemfar was a wet, flat country. What parts of it weren’t covered by dense, old forest were covered by deep peat bogs, and through the center of it meandered the Glaithmelt River. Aside from once a year during the spring thaw, when it crashed through Skemfar’s forests and washed away the detritus of the previous year, the river moved lethargically along its course, its water clouded brown with silt and decaying leaves.

Deep in the forest, at a stretch of river where the Glaithmelt bent back upon itself and created a narrow jut of land surrounded on three sides by water, was Jormund, greatest of the elven cities. It was a marvel, built long ago by the old gods. Originally, it had been carved into the forest itself, with thick tree roots hollowed out to make homes and workshops, and winding staircases and bridges woven from supple young branches. The trees had died long ago, leaving behind only their petrified remains, harder than stone or steel. The old gods had taken measures to ensure their grandest city would last, and no force could crack or break down what they had built. Newer construction had sprung up like mushrooms around the edges of Jormund, but there was also in the center, built atop the gods’ work, the palace of King Harald: Harthhall.

The best craftsmen the elves boasted had toiled long on Harthhall, and it was exquisitely made. But the elves had lost much in the centuries since the new gods had ascended, and against the rest of Jormund, Harthhall was but a child’s imitation of a master’s work. The tricks of Jormund’s construction had been lost with the breaking of elven divinity. Where the rest of Jormund glowed night and day with dancing fey fire, the light of life itself, Harthhall was lit by a wealth of pale candles and lanterns, a poor mimicry of its neighbors’ radiance. Its curves and twists were artful, but it was a careful, studied art, the kind to make one say ‘well done’ and nod appreciatively at the evidence of diligent work. It lacked the effortless grace that characterized the rest of Jormund.

Still, King Harald had thought it important that the two elven peoples have some new symbol of their unity, untainted by centuries of warfare. He had united the fractured wood elves and shadow elves into a single kingdom, and the construction of Harthhall had been his first decree. All the business of the court was now done there, and the king and his brother, the prince Tyvar, lived there when not on campaign.

Harthhall was made to resemble a blossoming jaspera flower: five large, tapered halls comprised the kitchens, armory, quarters for servants and for guests, libraries, and other such things needed to maintain the palace and provide for the king and his court. Three smaller yet more ornate buildings rose above, these being the lodgings of the king and his brother, as well as the king’s audience chamber. Through the arched window of his chamber, King Harald could just be seen, pacing to and fro; the windows of his brother’s lodgings were dark.

At the moment, Tyvar slept the deep sleep of the drunk. He had, as was his wont, spent the night drinking and wrestling and laughing with friends, and had only late come to bed. But he awoke at once when a stern knock came at the door, and pushed tangled braids back from his face and sat up.

There were three things every person noted upon meeting Prince Tyvar. The first was his build: Tyvar was strong and tall, though not as tall as his brother the king, and had arms thick as stout branches. He delighted in arm-wrestling and could be found most evenings visiting the taverns of Jormund in search of worthy opponents. Rarely did he lose.

The second thing people noticed was his hair. Long and fire-red, it was a rare color for an elf. Both he and his brother bore the distinctive hue, and some had taken, of late, to call it a sign of the old gods’ favor and of King Harald’s right to rule. Others, more quietly, had noted that the color was not at all rare among dwarves or humans, and suggested that perhaps the divine blood of the elven king had been watered with that of lesser races.

The third thing people noticed was Tyvar’s smile. Tyvar smiled often and honestly, and his smile was like the rising of the sun, cheering those who saw it. King Harald was respected; Prince Tyvar was adored.

He smiled now as his attendant entered. “What is it, Deon?”

“Apologies for disturbing you at such a late hour, my lord, but your brother the king has asked for you,” said Deon, an elderly elf with gray hair. “He did not say it was urgent, but if I may say so, I took from his tone that it concerned a matter most grave.”

“It must be, for him to wake me so early,” said Tyvar. He stood and walked to his dresser and washed his face with water from the basin that sat atop it. He had not been asleep long, and the giddiness of drink still clouded his mind. Water did little to clear it, but there was no help for that. Tyvar bent to pick up his clothing from where he had dropped it on the floor earlier that night; there was little of it, for in the fashion of male wood elves he wore no shirt nor shoes, only a pair of loose pants and a large, decorated belt.

Once he was dressed and made presentable, Tyvar followed the attendant towards his brother’s audience chamber, but they were little more than halfway there when they encountered King Harald himself, who had grown impatient waiting, though Tyvar had not taken long to dress at all.

“Brother!” King Harald declared upon seeing Tyvar. He waved away the servant. His voice grew quiet, and he placed his arm around Tyvar’s shoulders and drew him in close. “You must come, at once. I have need of you. An unexpected guest has come to our hall, and a fair strange guest too, and he brings with him grave news. You are my most trusted advisor. I need you to hear what he has to say. The path I see before me is dim; perhaps your words will light it.”

“Just the other day, you called me a half-witted milksop because I said we should give Taufur more soldiers to guard his hall, as he asked.”

“Bah! Taufur has more than enough in his coffers to train warriors of his own, without poaching ours,” said Harald. “Besides, I did not call you my wisest advisor, nor my most skilled. I called you my most trusted.”

It was said at least partly in jest, and Harald smiled warmly at his brother as he spoke. But there was a tightness in his eyes that Tyvar had not seen on his brother’s face since the elves had been united, though he had seen it often when he was young, and his brother the yet-to-be king had turned to him for solace. Tyvar had been too young to be anything more than a sympathetic ear, but he had served as his brother’s confidante where no else could. The peace between the elves was yet precarious, and trust was a scarce commodity.

“Brother, who is this guest? What has come?” asked Tyvar. He wished he had not drunk so much earlier that night.

“If I told you, you would think me mad.”

They came at last to the king’s audience chamber. This was the smaller of the two King Harald used, an intimate room painted an opulent red. There was but one door, and unseen enchantments protected the room, preventing eavesdropping. Harald used it only when discussing matters of great sensitivity. The guards had been dismissed, and inside a lone figure waited, its face hidden under a ratty black cloak. Harald strode quickly to his dais and sat upon the steps, and gestured impatiently to the figure.

“Please. Tell my brother all that you have told me.”

The figure lifted its head and its ragged cloak shifted. The hood fell away, revealing a human man, coarse in features, with straggling black hair and a scarred face. But Tyvar’s eyes were drawn to the man’s hands: his cloak had hidden them, but they were revealed as he moved, and on his hands were traceries of tattoos that glowed green and blue with the light of the aurora. Tyvar knew at once that this was one of the new gods.

“One of the Skoti has come to Skemfar, to Harthhall the seat of elven power?” Tyvar demanded.

“Your brother is very perceptive,” said the god. His voice was thick and rasping, as if he had been drinking and smoking all through the night.

“Save your ire, Tyvar,” cautioned King Harald. “Listen first to what he has to say.”

“Which of them is he?” asked Tyvar. The drink burned hot in his veins. “You obviously are not Alrund, nor Jorn, nor Egon.”

“You know me as Valki,” said the god. His words came slowly, as if reluctant to drip from his mouth. “And I come now with dire tidings. I am one of the Skoti, as you well observed, but of late the scheming of my family has left me with apprehension in my heart. You hold your brother dear, do you not, young prince? I hold my brothers and sisters similarly close. What evil would your brother have to do to turn you against him? Imagine it! Hold it in your mind’s eye! What foul acts would he have to commit? What cruelty, what depravity? No, no, do not speak—it matters not what you imagine. Hold onto that feeling and know that _that_ is what I feel. For me, it is no longer an idle fantasy. The Skoti intend to embark on an evil quest.

“You know, I am sure, of my reputation. Mischief and devilry are my trade; some would claim me cruel, and others claim me evil myself, but I reject their accusations, as never have I intended to harm others, though it may be that harm has befallen people, now and again, as a result of my antics. Ah! I must not be distracted by pettiness; more important matters are at hand. Know only that the Skoti’s plans are offensive even to one such as me, one who delights in hijinks and misdeeds. I am no soft-hearted fool like Kolvori or Esika.”

“You have spoken much and yet said very little,” said Tyvar. “Get to it. What is it they intend?”

“Of course, young prince. I desired merely to set the stage, as it were, so you could understand why I felt I must come to you, though much bad blood exists between your folks and mine.” Valki closed his eyes, as if in pain, and took a deep breath that seemed to Tyvar quite exaggerated. His eyes glittered black when they opened. “The Skoti fear you, King Harald. They fear the power of the elven races united. They worry that the binding of the Einir and the banishment of the Cosmos Serpent were not enough to secure their power over elvenkind. And so they intend to march to…not to war, no, but to slaughter. 

“They will kill every elf: every man, every woman, every child. And their souls will not go to Starnheim, nor will they fall to Istfell, for my sister Reidane has spent much time among the valkyries. Through her, the Skoti have struck a dark bargain with the winged women, and they intend to send the souls of every living elf into the Cosmos to be banished with the serpent, so that even in death the elves can mount no challenge to the Skoti’s supremacy. They will tear down every elven building, be it grand temple or modest hovel, and burn the forests of Skemfar to ash, then sever the bonds that tie Skemfar to the World Tree and let it fall away into the Cosmos.”

Valki held out his hands helplessly, and his face contorted with fear. “You must see why I have come, why I felt I must warn you. Madness has gripped my family, or perhaps some evil that was in their souls all along has found root and flourished. I have no love for the elves, and well do I remember the war we fought against your kind. But this plan wrought by my kin is a desecration, a crime against the very ordering of the world. Only you can stop them!”

Valki ended his plea by covering his eyes with his hand and sighing sadly, as if he were about to weep with the weight of it all. Once more, Tyvar felt as if Valki moved too deliberately, and his tale seemed too outlandish to be true. Of course the Skoti would fear the power Harald was building, but to cut Skemfar from the World Tree entirely? That, to Tyvar, seemed absurd, but when he looked over to Harald, the king’s face was stricken and grey. 

“What proof do you bring?” asked Tyvar.

“What proof can I bring?” asked Valki, once more raising his hands helplessly. “It is only words and will be thus until the moment they march. But you must know that I took a great risk by coming here and defying the other gods. Why would I do that, if I did not believe a grave wrong was about to be committed? Speak a word to even the least of them and you will doom me! I have many powers, but I could not stand against all of them, and should they find I have warned you, they will destroy me utterly.”

“But if there is no plan, you took no risk at all,” said Tyvar. “Except, perhaps, the annoyance of your kin upon discovering another of your ruses.”

Valki hung his head. “I can offer only my words and a fervent hope that you will heed them. I know there is no love between your people and mine, and I know there is much distrust for me specifically. Alas! For all my wit, I can see no better way to convince you, save to tell you plainly what the gods intend. I agree that it would be better if I had some token of proof, but no such thing exists. Should I have contrived one, young prince, to fool you into believing me? Such is within my power, were I to try. Yet I desire a partnership based not on lies, but on a shared understanding that the Skoti’s evil plan must be thwarted.”

“I thank you for your words, Valki, and your courage in coming here,” said King Harald slowly. “You have given my brother and me much to think over and discuss. You will excuse us. We must speak privately. Doubtless you have your own errands to attend to.”

Valki bowed low. “Thank you, honored king, for listening to my words. I am at your service, should you need me. Old Alrund holds sway with the ravens, but the crows come to me. Should you but catch one and tell it to fetch me, I will come.” Then he turned smartly on his heel and put up the moth-eaten hood of his ragged cloak, and in a burst of sulfurous shadow was gone.

Tyvar sat next to his brother on the dais. Silence passed between them for several minutes. Then at last Tyvar spoke.

“I am not as clever as you, Harald, but something about this rings foul.”

“I would agree, but for the cold fear that has rimed my heart. Did you not feel it? With every word, the ice thickened.” Harald’s voice dropped to a growl. “It takes the barest wisdom to know that the Skoti will oppose us, and long have I assumed they hated me and my accomplishments, though they have yet to move against me. I thought we would have more time to prepare, and to unravel the mysteries locking away the Einir, that they would aid us in overthrowing the false gods. But I was foolish. We speak ill of the Skoti, but their prowess in tactics cannot be denied, and they are not halfwits who will let a challenger grow his power unopposed.”

“Yes, I admit, at first Valki’s words did chill me,” said Tyvar. “But then, I think, he overplayed his hand. It was all I could do not to laugh when he said the Skoti would cast Skemfar into the Cosmos. How ridiculous! Do they even possess such a power? They could only defeat the Einir through trickery, and did not destroy them, merely trapped them in jaspera trees. They could invade Skemfar, and do great damage to our people, but destroy us? Destroy Skemfar? That is not within their power.”

Harald stood and paced about the chamber. “How certain are you? For if you are wrong, it will mean the end of elvenkind and the eternal reign of the false gods. It will be the ruin of everything I have worked so long for. The humans, the dwarves, even the valkyries—they all accept these new gods. We alone work against them! Do you think the human kingdoms would come to our aid if the Skoti warred against us? They are too focused on their petty squabbles. The dwarves are too focused on their art.”

Harald’s voice rose in anger as he spoke, and he gestured savagely with his hands to punctuate his frustrations. Tyvar was alarmed to see his brother so distraught.

“Only we can right the injustice done to our ancestors and our gods. No one else will do it for us. No one else will come to our aid.” Harald ceased his pacing and squared his shoulders. “It comes to this: I will not see my people massacred and my kingdom torn down. We planned always to cast down the Skoti. If it must be now, then now it shall be.”

“Be not overhasty, brother,” cautioned Tyvar. “Never did I think I would have to counsel you thus, for it was you who taught me never to strike until my feet were planted, and it is you who often must remind me of such. Yet now it is I who must remind you. We are not ready for war, not against the Skoti. One day, yes, but not yet. You know this.”

“War has come all the same.”

“Has it? We know only that Valki says war is coming. Yes, we should send out scouts and spies, and see if we can verify what Valki has said. I cannot see how, but he may speak the truth. But would you send our armies forth before knowing the movements of the enemy? On the word of a self-styled god of lies?”

“Lies? No, he is the most honest of all of them, for he admits he is a charlatan. They are all of them tricksters and thieves, false gods usurping divinity, but only he will say so. No. We cannot wait. We cannot trust him, no, but neither can we wait. I feel already that Valki’s warning has come too late, and we risk annihilation if we delay even until daybreak to begin our preparations.” Harald came to stand before Tyvar, placed his hands upon Tyvar’s shoulders, and pulled him close. “You must understand. I have not felt such certainty since the day I slept under the jaspera tree and saw a vision of the elves united under our banner. You are right. We cannot trust Valki. But I must trust the certainty in my heart.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Harald,” protested Tyvar. But the king was already calling for his attendants to wake the war council, and could not be dissuaded.

Tyvar leaned against the railing of a walkway between two towers of the palace, high above the ground, and watched the city of Jormund come alive. The sounding of the horn in the temple woke the city, not the dawn. The tree canopy above was so thick that light came down only here and there, in narrow beams, and the fey fire that clung always to the buildings of the city outshone it. Jormund was never truly dark.

Below, people moved through the streets, setting up their market stalls, tending vegetable patches and animals, carrying linens to the river to wash. The compost heaps near the edge of the city steamed and mingled with the morning fog rising from the river, and bright flares of orange broke through the haze of pink-purple fey glow as cook fires were lit.

If Valki was right, then soon the new gods would invade Skemfar, and all the people Tyvar watched below him would die. Their souls would be damned. The city, which had stood for uncountable years, would be broken, and the forest would burn. He himself would be slain, and his brother also.

 _How sure are you?_ Harald had asked. Tyvar was more certain than not that Valki lied; but was he certain enough? The cost of being wrong was high.

Harald was somewhere below, holding council with his generals. Harald had said he must follow his heart. It was an odd sentiment coming from Harald, whom Tyvar had always found almost frighteningly calm and logical. Even before embarking on his quest to unite the elves and become their king, Harald had had unflappable self-possession, never quick to action, striking only at the perfect moment. He had the patience of a serpent, which had allowed him to bring the tribes together and mediate their squabbles.

Harald followed his heart only after carefully balancing his options. Something was wrong, Tyvar knew. He could not say what, but something was wrong. Harald should not have been convinced by Valki’s words, not when Tyvar found them laughable. Tyvar’s instinct was to trust Harald’s wisdom, for seldom did Harald make mistakes. But he was making one now, and Tyvar had to find a way to prove it to him.

Filled with fresh resolve, Tyvar pushed himself back from the railing and set off in search of his friends. He would need their help for what he had in mind.

They were, as he had known they would be, down in the sandpits near the armory, practicing their craft. Brenni and Stokka sparred with ax and shield, while Ondar and Lina shot arrows at straw-stuffed targets.

“My prince!” declared Brenni, dropping his ax and sweeping his arms into an elaborate bow. “We missed you at the morning calisthenics. You did not overindulge last night, I hope? You were matching Lina drink for drink, and I thought to myself, ‘prince or no, he must be careful, for Lina could out-drink a fish!’”

“It was not the drink, no, and I did not match Lina drink for drink, for no man nor woman, be they prince or common beggar, could match her,” said Tyvar. “I was…” He stopped himself. Deception came unnaturally to him, but this was a matter that required secrecy. “Come, let us go somewhere more private. I must tell you what has been told to me, and ask for your assistance.”

The five of them hiked a short way outside of the city, to an old, hollowed tree where they had played often in their youth. They slipped inside, and while the hollow trunk was not so roomy as it had been when they were children, they all could squeeze inside and sit on their heels.

Tyvar told them of Valki’s coming and Harald’s decision, sparing no detail. They asked questions of him to clarify how exactly the king had looked, and how Valki had acted, and the exact words he had used, and all of them expressed great concern at Tyvar’s telling.

“And now I find myself in need of your help,” said Tyvar as he finished his tale. “I believe Valki is tricking Harald, but I cannot convince Harald of this. I need some proof, some token of Valki’s deception. If I could but explain why Valki desires to trick us…”

“Is it not clear? You must follow him,” said Stokka. “You move between the realms as easily as the Skoti do. Find Valki, and spy on him from afar, and learn his doings.”

“I had considered that, yes,” said Tyvar. “But Valki is tricky. It will not be easy following him, and should he spot me, or discover any trace of my passing, then the whole affair is moot. That is where I need your help.”

He turned first to quiet Ondar. “You may be the best tracker among the ranks of the elves. I do not know where Valki has gone, or where he may be doing business. But if he has left any trace, I know that you will spot it.”

“You do not need to ask, my prince. Of course I will come, if you will have me,” said Ondar solemnly.

To Lina, Tyvar said, “You are a sure shot and a keen lookout. I will need someone to keep watch and cover my trail, and there are none I would trust in this errand more than you.”

“I will follow until Starnheim or success,” Lina said, smiling.

Next was tall Stokka. “We have sparred together since we were boys,” said Tyvar. “Should it come to fighting, I would have your strong shield and sharp ax at my side.”

“We are poor sneaks indeed, should it come to fighting!” laughed Stokka. “But if it should, I will be there beside you.”

Finally, Tyvar spoke to Brenni. “You, my friend, will have the toughest task of all: I must ask you to stay here, and watch over my brother. Perhaps you can find why Valki’s words have affected him so.”

Brenni was the first to hesitate. “You want me to spy on the king?”

“No, no,” said Tyvar. “Merely stay near, and do what you can to safeguard him. I do not know why Valki set out to trick him, but it must be for some fell purpose. You have many friends in the palace and among the chieftains. Please, watch over Harald, and see that he does not come to harm through his actions or another’s. And if you can, discover why he is so disquieted.”

Slowly, Brenni nodded. “I will see what can be done, and no harm shall befall the king while I live to prevent it.”

Tyvar looked at each of his friends in turn, a grateful smile gracing his face. The last of the chill that Valki’s words had brought dissipated at the sight of his friends’ determined faces. Tyvar felt a thrill of excitement shiver down his spine at the thought of the quest they were about to embark on. To spy on a god and undermine his plan! Such were the acts recorded in skald-song, and Tyvar could not help but imagine how the opening lines might sound: _hark to the tale of Tyvar the prince, who tricked fickle Valki and saved Skemfar…_

He jumped to his feet. “Come! Let us make haste! Fetch whatever you will need, though do not pack too much: we will want to move quickly. I must leave before my brother thinks to include me in his planning, so let us meet here, in an hour’s time, and then we will set forth!”

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I know mistletoe berries are white. It's a deliberate reference to the legend of the death of Baldr
> 
> 2\. This little project will delay _For Our Ghosts_ a bit, and I'm sorry about that, but you've gotta bottle what's coming out of the tap even if it's not what you were planning on bottling
> 
> 3\. While this is the first of my "resurrected Gideon" fics to get posted, I have four on my hard drive. I might have a problem. ~~It's called _War of the Spark_. ~~~~~~
> 
> 4\. This is part 1 of _probably_ 7, but we shall see. It was going to be a 2,000 word drabble and then, as is so often the case, it got completely out of hand.


End file.
